Bob van Laerhoven - Return to Hiroshima

“Try to picture the van. Was there anything unusual about it?”

Beate smiles at the policeman’s old-fashioned English. “You’re a photographer,” the inspector continues, almost apologetically. “Aren’t you supposed to be observant, to see things others might miss?”

“But I did forget something,” says the German slightly taken aback. “There was a painting on the side of the van. I remember looking at it before the young man started to shout, a red demon … you know… a young girl… from behind.”

“Taking her, you mean?” says the inspector

“Yes.”

“Was there anything about the demon that drew your attention?”

“He was ugly.” Beate laughs nervously.

“It might help if you close your eyes.”

Beate Becht does what he asks although she doesn’t believe in such gimmicks. But to her surprise it works. “His hair was wild and he had long nails… and horns.”

“An Oni . They’re pretty common in manga comics. Young people read them a lot, they’re popular all over Japan. We even have study mangas and philosophical mangas. We like drawings. And photos.”

Beate wonders why he’s so talkative all of a sudden. Was his last remark a hidden compliment? “Sorry, that’s it I’m afraid.”

“When I saw your name on the incident report I bought one of your books.”

“Am I so well-known in Japan? You flatter me.”

“Your work is extraordinary. Gothic … isn’t that what they call it in English?”

Beate Becht nods. Inspector Takeda can’t help himself: he pictures his sturdy body on top of her boyish frame in a situation more violent than erotic. Takeda is aware that the events of the last few days, and the deceptively light but significant internal pressure he has experienced all his life because of his origins, have set something in motion over which he has little control. He knows he has a certain sort of sensitivity that is compensated for by physical urges that usually help him get his feet back on the ground. But he’s noticed of late that his urges tend to derail him more than heal him.

He thinks about his wife. Suddenly, without knowing why, he feels pity for her, and her lonely life.

“My thoughts are jumping all over the place like frogs,” he says. He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. “And their croaking is enough to drive a man crazy.”

Beate scowls and begins to laugh. She visibly relaxes. “I hope you don’t mind me saying, but you’re a bit of a blabbermouth compared to the average Japanese man.”

Takeda explains in brief that he is mixed race. Two men appear behind them on the riverbank, walking and talking loudly. They’re foreigners. Takeda sizes them up as they approach. Iranians, he figures. A fair amount of friction has been reported in recent months between the Japanese and labourers from Peru, the Philippines, Iran, Malaysia, and Bangladesh. All down to the crisis. The men appear to be keeping an eye on them and Takeda doesn’t like their furtive behaviour. Takeda senses the air around him contract and interrupts his story. “Wait a minute,” says Beate at that very instant. “I remember something else, inspector. The demon had a tattoo. Rough dots. It looked as if nails had been pressed into his wrist.”

The inspector’s face brightens up. “The sign of the Shinjinrui , young layabouts, outcasts.”

He’s distracted by Beate’s remark. In the meantime the Iranians are almost on top of them. They pull knives and run towards them. Takeda isn’t armed. Japanese police functionaries don’t usually carry a service weapon. Takeda steps in front of Beate, protecting her with his substantial frame. The first of the Iranians aims below the belt, but Takeda beats him to it with a boot to the testicles. The man wheezes, drops his knife and grabs his crotch. For a brief moment he’s an obstacle to the other man, smaller, bearded, turning circles in the air like a typical knife fighter trying to prevent his opponent from grabbing his weapon. Takeda’s next move is unexpected: he jumps at the first attacker bent double from the pain and pushes him with all his might in the direction of the man with the knife. The two bodies collide, the knife fighter goes down and his companion wheezes once again. The smaller, bearded man clambers to his feet and runs off. The taller of the attackers remains on the ground, his companion’s knife wedged in his liver. He shivers, arches his back, then collapses in convulsions onto the pavement.

Takeda looks at Beate Becht. He expects to see her in a state of terror but instead he’s blinded by a flash from her camera.

Iwake with a start in Yori’s arms. Quiet as a mouse, I try not to wake her. She smells of something sticky sweet; perhaps it’s her perpetual chewing gum. A memory of Mayumi flashed past me in my sleep and made me tense and nervous. Try as I might, nothing is going to bring back whatever was important about that snippet of my dream. All I can remember was that my father appeared at the end and told me the precise ins and outs of it all, but I was as nervous as a deer at a pool of water when it senses a predator glaring at it from the bushes and I didn’t understand a word of what he said. Then death appeared, his massive weightiness a calming presence. I’m still a little groggy, not quite awake. I listen to Yori’s breath. When her eyes are open there’s always something vicious about her, like a cat in the wild, but asleep her face is serene, innocent.

She sighs in her sleep and, as if that’s a sign, a shiver runs through me. I look over my shoulder.

A few feet away, crouched like an animal, Reizo, staring at us, contempt written all over his face. His presence is more irritating than dangerous.

“It’s normal for women to nurse one another when they feel bad. It’s in their nature,” he says. His voice is airy, almost a purr, barely a whisper. I search for an appropriate answer, but he touches his lips with his finger and winks. Yori mumbles something in her sleep and her left foot kicks something invisible. I get up, still careful not to wake her, and follow Reizo into the other room. I stand upright, my stomach tense. He walks through the common area – it’s empty – and into the next room, which the Suicide Club use for storage. The things they collect on their forays through the city piled up on the floor right and left. There isn’t much room. We’re standing close. I take advantage of the fact that I’m a good six inches taller than he is by looking down at him ostentatiously. He doesn’t seem afraid, although he now knows how strong I am.

“I want to write about you,” he says as if he’s making me a business offer. “My novel needs someone like you.”

I’m on my guard, think back to what Yori told me about his “literary experiment”, although her story about the poisonous jellyfish was farfetched and hard to believe, like many of her fantasies. I decide to play the game, for the time being. Reizo smiles disarmingly. “I’ll do whatever it takes. Originality is the most important thing.”

“I don’t possess originality. My existence is dull.”

“Tell me your life story?” From his mouth, it is a mixture of a demand and a question. I don’t know why, but behind the bravura, the cunning, the chilling cruelty, I can see a twisted mechanism, a spider’s web of pain, ambition and frustration, a child that’s lived for years with its head stuck inside an instrument of torture, leaving it disfigured.

I recognise myself in him. We are equals . The thought cuts into me like a knife.